Better in the Morning
by jojospn
Summary: Teen!chester. As requested by LaueHime. After Sammy is injured on a hunt, Dean steps in to care for his heavily drugged brother. And learns the truth about his brother's future in hunting. Rated T for language.


**A/N: This is for LaueHime, who requested a teen!chester where Sam is high or doped up. To be honest, this is not really within my comfort zone, but here goes! Thanks so much to all who have followed me, read my work, added my stories to favorites lists and so on. And no, I don't own the boys, sigh. I'm basing this loosely on Sam's scene in "Sam, Interrupted" when he's high on pain meds. Set when Sam is about eighteen.**

**Better in the Morning**

"Sam, what the fuck?"

Dean walked into the brothers' latest horrible excuse of a motel, a brown paper bag loaded with the few necessities he could afford on his latest (nearly maxed out) fraudulent credit card. Among the usual fare (snack foods, a six pack, replacement tubes of Polysporin) was a bottle of extra strength Tylenol, a few history periodicals, and a box of Lipton Chicken Noodle soup. Because of course, the kid had to get a cold right after a really nasty break. Winchester luck.

It was supposed to have been a routine hunt: a salt and burn, one of the more tried and true jobs. And it would have been no problem, had ghostie decided to forgo making an appearance. But vengeful spirits don't always want to go down without a fight, and Art Porter, a sheriff who had been killed in a standoff a la _Assault on Precinct 13 _(though the assailants, in this case, were not of the flesh eating variety), clearly wanted to dish out a little payback. The result? Two Winchesters thrown against the sheriff's crypt, and one Sammy with a badly broken wrist.

All in all, the end result wasn't really terrible. A seriously pissed off Art was finally laid to rest and both brothers walked away without life threatening injuries. But Dean knew from experience that broken bones were not fun; and while Sam had an extremely high tolerance for pain, the older Winchester could tell that, once the numbness was beginning to wear off, his kid brother was suffering excruciating pain. At every hiss, every stifled moan, was a dead giveaway. And so Dean drove the Impala as gently as he could, avoiding every bump possible and driving as carefully as he could, so as not to jar Sam's already broken wrist. And all the while rambling on about stupid shit, what exactly, he couldn't remember. Anything to distract his kid brother from the pain. The kid brother who was trying to get over a cold, and wincing in pain at every sneeze and stifled cough.

And so the doctors, as usual, had set the bone, prescribed some painkillers, and sent the Winchesters on their way, Sam already popping pills like candy. Dean had felt rather apprehensive, but chose to say nothing. After all, broken bones hurt like a bitch. Dean would take cuts and burns any day rover fractures. But the kid seemed fine, and it took a lot to knock out Sam Winchester.

So it surprised Dean to walk into the motel to see Sam, high as a kite on his bed, staring at one of the retro lava lamps that decorated the dark space. His hazel eyes were wide and slightly out of focus as he stared at the lamp, the colourful gases swirling and dancing in the inclosed space and casting brilliant reflections on the walls. "Hey, Dean," he muttered dazedly, entranced. Dean rolled his eyes, setting the bag on a nearby table. "How many of those painkillers did you take, Sammy?"

"Paink... oh, those things!" Sam giggled, then sighed. "Man, I feel so...so... awesome." He grinned stupidly, leaning back on his bed, the lava lamp temporarily forgotten. "An' you know what? _You're_ awesome."

Under normal circumstances, Dean would have found the situation to be quite humorous. Obviously Sam must have taken something else with those painkillers (come to think of it, he remembered bying the kid some NyQuil the day of his accident). Yeah. Mixing a lot of Tylenol with that stuff would make anyone fly off their rocker. But there was something about seeing his brother in this state that bothered Dean. Why, he couldn't quite figure out. Because now, Sam was once again focusing on the lava lamp as if it were one of his favourite novels. "I's boo'ful," he slurred, and once more began giggling childishly. As sorry as Dean was for his kid brother, this was fucking hilarious.

It wasn't until after listening to another twenty minutes of Sam's incoherent babbling when Dean finally remembered what bothered him. The last time Sam had been inebriated, the day he had tested out one of his fake IDs in one of those shady hole in the wall joints who just don't give a shit, the kid had been equally entertaining, belting karaoke covers of Dave Matthews, Our Lady Peace, a barely recognizable version of "American Pie". Dean had been highly amused, until a bunch of assholes decided that the night's performance was so horrible, an ass kicking was warranted. Instead, Dean had pummelled _them,_ nearly sending the ring leader to the hospital and resulting in a lifetime ban from _Ed's Bar and Grill _in return for not calling the cops.At first, Sam had been very girly about the whole thing, overly affectionate ("I love you, man!"), fortunately in the privacy of the Impala. A while later, though, as the kid was on the cusp between drunkenness and sobriety, he had gotten incredibly moody, and even more emo than usual. Rambling on about how Dean was the good son, while Sam was a perpetual fuck up whom John Winchester resented. No matter how Sam's research was almost always spot on, and that father and son were so alike that butting heads was par for the course.

Now, with the tensions between John and his youngest were stressed to the max, it would likely be ten times worse.

"Don' gettit, D'n," Sammy muttered, swaying a little on the bed. Dean instinctively reached out to steady his younger brother. "Dad hates me. Wanna... wanna go to school. Wanna be a... a... lawyer. Why can' I, D'n? Don' wanna hunt..."

And Dean froze. Sam wanted to quit hunting? To go to law school? How could he have missed this? Though, looking back, there had been more than a few warning signs that the kid wanted to leave. The secretive looks on his face when he got what little mail the Winchesters acquired (and always needing to be the one to get it, claiming that he enjoyed the fresh air); the extra study sessions already piling up on the endless hours he would normally accumulate, even on weekends, the hinted conversations ("Dean, if you weren't a hunter, what would you like to do?" and "I think you'd be an awesome mechanic, you know?"). The evidence was there, plain as day. And yet Dean had either been completely oblivious, or, more than likely, tried to ignore the situation.

"Deaaaan!" Lost in his thoughts, Dean had nearly forgotten about his brother's ramblings. That is, until that final, whiny cry for his brother. But doped or not, Sam would always be his brother, and when he called out to him, Dean Winchester always answered. And usually somehow defused the situation. With any luck, this would be no different.

"Dad doesn't hate you, Sammy," Dean said calmly, waiting patiently for the kid's eyes to focus on him. "Yeah, you guys butt heads, but you know he doesn't hate you."

For a moment, Sam looked like he was about to make a comeback; probably would have if he wasn't so high as a goddamned kite, but opted instead to lean back against the bed, picking at his jeans. The kid had always done that when he was upset. "Still wanna...wanna..." _Go to school, abandon my family._ Dean immediately brushed aside the negative thoughts. Of course Sam wasn't planning on ditching them... was he?

"Don' feel so good, D'n..." Immediately Dean grabbed the trashcan, waited patiently as his kid brother emptied his stomach, massaging the kid's shoulders as Sam vomited. When finally the heaving ceased, he handed Sam a bottle of Gatorade and a faint smile. "It'll be better in the morning, Sammy," he said affectionately. "'Course you'll feel like shit at first, but at least you'll remember to not mix prescription painkillers with NyQuil." Sam groaned in response, and promptly laid back in his bed. He was snoring loudly within minutes. Dean, however, did not sleep that night, thoughts of his brother's semi-coherent mumblings preventing any chance at rest. Because doped or not, Sam's ramblings about his future were spot on. And while Dean knew his father loved both boys equally, it was easy to understand why Sam felt the way he did. Dean always had been his father's "good little soldier", the one who obeyed everything John Winchester told him: "yessir,", "nosir," "I'll try to do better, sir." Sam, on the other hand, dared to question his father's authority. Hell, the kid had gone to Dean for parental advice before turning to his own biological father.

Dean sighed, closed his eyes in hopes that exhaustion would finally overpower his restlessness. And when it didn't, he grabbed the remote, a bottle of cheap beer, and flipped through the few channels the cheap motel was willing to pay for.

_Everything's fine. It will be better in the morning._

Once again, Dean Winchester held comfort in lies.


End file.
